He looked at me with soft, misty eyes and I felt my wetness dripped down my thighs. Oladimeji, my husband, got hold of my left breast, buried his mouth on the nipple. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, I screamed as he lowered his dick into my over-wet cunt and it slid in effortlessly.
It was a trance. I woke suddenly and found myself in the hospital, with intravenous fluid dripping into my veins. And it came back all to me. Oladimeji could not have been making love to me. He was dead and buried. I then remembered how I got to the hospital.
The burial was a month behind; I was in the sitting room watching TV. I heard a knock at the door and rushed to see who it was. Through the door view I saw about seven people. Three of them – two males and one female – were known faces: Uncle Williams, Uncle David and Aunty Celina – all members of my late husband’s family.
I thought it was one of those their goodwill visits, but the new faces I was seeing warned me of the disaster to come. I allowed them in. And after serving them all cold water, I noticed the three known faces were conversing in low voices. And after due consideration within themselves, Uncle Williams assumed the role of the spokesman.
“Thank you, Fatimah,” he‘d begun, “May the Almighty ever be with you and direct you to do that which is right always…No evil shall befall you, just have faith in God and all ‘ll be well.”
My fears became compounded. Over the years, experience had taught me that when people wanted to hurt you, they focus, so as not to miss a point of what they had to say.
Uncle David dropped the bombshell. The woman with them was my late husband’s second wife and the kids were his.
What happened after that? I found myself in the hospital. A nurse came around and started thanking God. I wondered why all this drama. She told me I’d been rushed there two days earlier. And up till the moment she came in, I’d been in a state of coma. The doctor too sauntered in and you need to see the look on his face to know how elated he was. He changed my drips and left. The nurse did likewise and I was all alone again.
At age sixteen, I’d had the experience of a sixty-year-old. No father. No mother. No family. Religious riot had feasted on them. So, I was alone in the world, begging before I could eat anything. As I was walking the streets, a car (I can’t remember the make) pulled up by my side. The occupant wanted me to direct him to a street.
My knowledge of the streets of Kano convinced me there was no other way I could have given him direction without being in the car. I hopped in and before the twinkling of an eye, we’d reached the street. The man offered me money.
“Thank you, sir but I don’t need your money,” I said.
My response surprised the man. I saw him survey me from head to toe. Perhaps he was trying to figure out why a haggard-looking young girl like me would refuse a freely-given gift.
I told him about my life and he offered to help. With him, my life as a destitute ended. He was a relative to a woman who at the time ran an orphanage in Sango-Ota. He brought me down South, for the first time in my life.
Through the orphanage I attended schools up to university education. I graduated with a second class degree in Accountancy and was fortunate to get employed by an oil company where I’d done my youth service. I became a big girl, living in a four bedroom apartment with virtually all the luxuries of life. Cars and all what-not.
Throughout my university education, I never gave in to any love advances. I’d had a not-so-serious affair in my final year in the secondary school. The guy left for Europe immediately our results were out and sent me a letter through his younger brother ending the relationship. Perhaps the fear of getting another letter of this kind was responsible for my not showing the green-light for any of those guys who were ready to die at my feet back in my undergraduate days.
But with my new lease of life, I knew I needed a man, to pamper me and make me feel more than a log of wood. My answer was, however, answered six months into working with the oil company. It was in the person of Oladimeji Oyebanji, our assistant General Manager in-charge of operations. I never wasted time.
Oladimeji was shocked to discover I was a virgin. I asked him to create a road. He did eventually. It was not really an easy thing creating a road where there was none. Oladimeji asked me to move into his house or he would move into mine.
According to him, he’d never encountered a virgin before. “It was tedious, but all the same rewarding,” he’d remarked. When he saw that I was not ready to move into his house, he moved into mine. First, he brought one of his cars and two three suits. Later, he increased the number of clothes to fifteen.
Within two months of the relationship, we’d started talking marriage. But I was not so keen on it. But Oladimeji would not hear of it.
There was no way I could have scared him away. In my quiet moments, I was able to reason well that there was no point scaring him away. And five months into the relationship we did a registry marriage. No serious party. It was simply low-key.
Somehow, two years into the marriage there was no sign of pregnancy in me. I was becoming a sad figure. But Oladimeji saw no reason I should bother myself over nothing. Shortly after I moved into his house, he became more religious – that was some weeks before we went to the registry.
I felt assured by his soothing words, but I’d a mission to accomplish. And that was to have a medical report of my anatomy. I went for the test and was asked to come back. The waiting moment brought me pain. Finally, the date came and I rushed to the hospital. I can’t remember the medical jargon used by the doctor, but there was a complication in my womb and only miracle could put fruit in my womb. Dead end. No U-turn.
Since the problem was with me, I pleaded with Oladimeji to take another wife. After that, we had arguments. Oladimeji was the kind of man who knew when to turn a woman into a radio, receiving no feedback. I later gave up the idea and advised instead that we should ‘adopt’ one of Uncle William’s sons. So Daniel became my son and our son.
So, when Oladimeji died, it never occurred to me that he had another family elsewhere because he rejected the idea.
Uncle Williams was around the day I was discharged. I could not but ask him for further clarification.
From the age of the first born, I realised he was born about the time I was pestering Oladimeji to take a new wife. I remembered he’d gone for a conference in Kaduna at the time. We would have gone together, but there was a business I’d to take care of at the time.
Uncle Williams told me the woman just surfaced five days after his death. The kids are Oladimeji’s carbon copies.
A month and some days after I returned from the hospital, Oladimeji’s other woman wrote me through her lawyer demanding everything he owned on the premise that she was the only one who had kids for him. The letter claimed Oladimeji issued her a power of attorney over everything he owned. I cried as I squeezed the letter. I called my in-laws and from their reactions I knew I was all alone. My angel of a husband has become the devil in death. How could he leave me empty handed?
Please help me, where do I start from?